


world so sick with loss

by picht



Series: apathy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: "backstreet's back malfoy" -harry potter and the dealthy hallows, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Black Hermione Granger, Canon-Typical Violence, Character(s) of Color, Female Character of Color, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Indian Harry Potter, Internalized Transphobia, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Male Character of Color, Overuse of italics, POC Harry Potter, Some Humor, Trans Character, Trans Draco Malfoy, Trans Female Character, Trans Hermione Granger, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, i don't think i mentioned that in the fic but i wanna make it abundantly clear. hermione is black.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 05:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15966041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picht/pseuds/picht
Summary: yes, i am a monster. but i know my name is not apathy.{Draco is eleven years old, and his name isDraco.}//trans!draco fic/kind of a character study, which i began writing at 4 am one day for my pal jay. just b/c it's for jay doesn't make it any less self indulgent, tho.





	world so sick with loss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jay sindria](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=jay+sindria).



> wrow.jpg
> 
> hm. ok. so. first of all i gotta make it clear i'm posting this from a public computer at my college's library and i feel like i'm committing a crime and i am SO scared right now. anyway.
> 
> here is a uhhhhh thing. yea. cw for p severe internalized transphobia on draco's part. and like canon typical violence. and harry's kind of a self conscious dummy. but other than that i think you're good to read it if you want. hope you enjoy!

**yes,**

Draco is eleven years old, and his name is _Draco_.

 _Dragon_ , he thinks to himself, late at night when he should be asleep but instead he’s sitting up by candlelight reading ahead in preparation for his arrival to Hogwarts later in the year. He’s known this little— _fact_ —about himself since he was nine. He’s known just as long that it means there’s something wrong with him, deep inside himself; it’s not normal, to be like this. There’s no word for it, there’s probably no one on earth like him, he thinks. It’s a lonely existence, but Draco is nothing if not adaptable, so by the time he’s ten, once he’s realized that no amount of ignoring it will make it go away, he’s already come up with a plan to make living with this particular aspect of himself as easy as possible.

His mother, he thinks, will probably support him no matter what type of freak he turns out to be. With his father, this is less likely to be so, but he also knows that if there’s one thing that Lucius desires more than tradition, it’s having a good public image. For this reason, the Malfoys generally stay out of public eye at all unless it’s in order to upkeep or improve their image, and as such—and with Draco being a typical bratty eleven year old, and _especially_ with Draco never having quite fit the most commonly accepted ideas of what a pureblood girl should be—the boy has never had much exposure to the public in the first place.

This means it should not be particularly difficult for him to transition fully from being—Merlin forbid—the young Mistress Malfoy, to the young _Master_ Malfoy. After many nights thinking too hard about the subject, Draco has come to the conclusion that he can successfully convince his father that it would be better for the Malfoy public image if the single Malfoy heir makes his first real public appearance at Hogwarts as a boy who is perfectly well behaved as one might expect a young man to be, rather than a— _Merlin forbid_ —strange girl who could never quite master the art of being a young pureblood woman.

This all leads him to where he is now, sitting across from his parents at their dinner table, waiting in harsh silence for them to react to the (very well put together) speal he’s just given them; how he knows it’s not typical but he knows _they_ know that being socialized as a girl has never come very easily to him, and wouldn’t it be better for all parties involved if they instead simply embraced him being socialized as a boy, something which he actually has some hope of achieving, and really, how would anyone know that they’ve made such a change in the first place, because it’s not like many people are even truly aware of his existence, not that he’s suggesting that his parents are ashamed of him, simply that there are more important matters for them to attend to than parading their child around in public, which he understands completely, and finally, it’s not as if he’s desperate or anything, but he can say with certainty that being able to go into his Hogwarts career as a boy would allow for him to focus on his studies with no distractions, and they want him to be top of his class, after all, don’t they?

His father, in a fashion most typical to the man, hurls his wine glass against the wall, wine still in it and all. But the logic about Draco becoming Draco being best for the family image sticks with him, and it doesn’t take long for him and Draco’s mother both to admit that he has a point.

Agreeing to uphold appearances in public does not stop Lucius from calling him the wrong name and using the wrong terms in the privacy of their home, but Narcissa dresses him in his most masculine clothes the next week and takes him shopping for a whole new wardrobe. They spend half the afternoon buying him all sorts of clothing befitting an eleven year old boy of stature such as himself, and then the other half of the afternoon ridding his closet and bedroom of all things incriminatingly feminine while Lucius makes himself sparse. Narcissa calls him _Draco_ , and _son_ , and confides in him near the end of the day in a very quiet tone of voice that when she was younger she’d only ever planned on having one child, but had always hoped it would be a boy, and Draco thinks, I can do this.

When he receives his letter from Hogwarts a few months later, it is addressed to a Mr. Malfoy, and when Lucius manages to keep from storming out of the room, he thinks, _I can do this_.

**i am**

Draco is fifteen years old, and Pansy has just told him that she never wants to be married to a man.

They are the only ones awake in the Slytherin common room, and the end of term is days away, now. His best friend looks young and vulnerable as she explains that since she was twelve and old enough to really know who she liked, she’s only ever had eyes for other girls, and isn’t that so weird, so bizarre, but she can’t help it, really. She had cast a muffliato before even daring breach the subject, but she still whispers it like maybe if she says it quietly enough, she can take it back when he reacts negatively, as she obviously expects him to do.

After a few moments of deafening silence, Draco says, “I don’t think that’s particularly bizarre,” because he doesn’t. It’s not typical, certainly, but he has heard about wizards and witches who preferred their own gender. It’s typically half-bloods and muggleborns, he thinks, but it’s not like it’s unheard of, not like—not like him. And then, because it’s somehow easier to talk about than the only other things weighing heavy on his mind ( _Do you believe that Potter really saw You-Know-Who?_ , and _Do you think Hogwarts is in danger?_ , and even, _It’s true, you know. My father was there, and I know this, and I’ve never felt more frightened in my life than I do right now_ ), he even goes as far as saying, “It’s not bizarre like me.”

Pansy seems almost thankful for the subject change, and urges him to elaborate, so he does. He tells her how he was born with a different name, but has known for years that it wasn’t the right name for him, and how he’s more like her than she can comprehend, and how his parents know and had made it possible for him to go through his schooling as a boy, and how his mother took him shopping for traditional wizards robes for the Yule ball, but how his father hasn’t really looked at him since he told them, and sometimes he feels so deeply how very _wrong_ everything is, and how it may never be right, and Pansy says, “Wow.”

“I didn’t really know that was possible,” she says, and he tells her that he doesn’t think there’s anyone else out there like him, and how he’s a freak for it, of this he’s sure, but he’s accepted it now and is just trying to live as efficiently as possible. To this, she says, “At least we can be freaks together, right?”

They don’t hug, because Draco doesn’t hug people, but he tucks a stray strand of Pansy’s hair behind her ear before they get up to go to their respective dorms, and before they part ways fully she tugs sharply on his earlobe so that he’ll look up in time to see her smile brighter than he’s seen in a while.

He lays in bed that night feeling lighter than he has for a while, and actually falls asleep with minimal difficulty, thinking the whole time, I can do this.

 _I can do this_.

**a monster.**

Draco is eighteen, and he spends every night in his bedroom in the Manor, terrified and hating himself a little more each day.

The Death Eaters currently taking up residence know about his little thing, about his name being Draco, but this doesn’t stop them from making him feel awful for it at every turn. He’s always known he was a freak, but now he truly knows he’s a _freak_ , and he hates it more than anything. Aunt Bella looks him in the eye every day as she uses the wrong name and the wrong pronouns, and as she goads his mother into doing the same (something she hasn’t done in the seven years between now and that evening that feels like a lifetime ago), and he accepts it because there is nothing else for him to do.

Of everyone, the only person who really says and calls him the right things is You-Know-Who, a fact which corroborates with what little Draco knows of the man’s past life as a young, charismatic Dark Lord, and he loathes it.

Draco does terrible things during this time in his life, partially because he believes he has no choice if he and his family are to stay alive, but also partially because he knows his whole life has led up to this moment in time. He’s a Malfoy, he’s always been a Malfoy, and Malfoys are blood purists. His father is a Death Eater. It’s what makes the most sense, far be it from Draco to attempt to change his own destiny, and if, with every act of terror he commits under the dark lord’s reign, he thinks to himself, _this is you. This is what you wanted. This is what you dreamed about_ , and hates himself a little more, well, maybe it’s what he deserves.

And then fucking Weasley and Granger and _Potte_ show up to the Manor one fateful day, delivered right into the sitting room where Draco has taken to cowering in the corner, so he’s allowed a front row seat as the Death Eaters torment them while waiting for You-Know-Who. He watches, helpless, as Aunt Bella tortures Granger, carves a word into her flesh like it’s nothing. He watches the _whole time_ , hardly blinking, because after all, he’d called Granger that word before anyone else. _This is you. This is what you wanted. This is what you dreamed about._ It’s what he deserves, except—

When Bellatrix is finished with her crude writing, she says something that sits heavy in the pit of Draco’s stomach. “Look at yourself. This is what a freak like you _deserves_ ,” but it’s not said in the voice she reserves for her blood purity. It’s said in the voice that she reserves for reminding Draco every day that he’s broken, that there’s something wrong with him.

There’s no way, though, he thinks. There’s _no way_ she could possibly mean what he thinks she does. But the look on Granger’s face has shifted from a blank slate to something of pure defiance. Righteous anger that suggests to Draco that maybe his assumption is not so off the mark. “ _Fuck you_ ,” Granger says, and Draco’s unsure how she even has the ability to speak in this moment. As Bellatrix laughs maniacally and goes back to using her favorite curse, it’s all Draco can think about. What if Granger is like him? Fuck blood purity, fuck everything he’s been raised to believe that he has begun to question, what if Granger is _like him_ , and he’s spent the past seven years of his life tormenting her?

The thought is almost too horrible to bear, but the possibility of it being true runs too deep in his bones, so as they wait for the dark lord to arrive, and as Bellatrix continues to torture Granger, he doesn’t look away, because this is him. This is what he wanted. This is what he dreamed about.

It’s what he deserves.

**but**

Draco is nineteen, and the war is over.

His father is in Azkaban and his mother is all alone at the Manor, but if he hadn’t returned to Hogwarts to complete his NEWTs, he knows she would have scolded him to Hell and back, so here he is.

The first few months, he and Pansy had been walked all over, and they had accepted it. Pansy’s crimes are far lesser in severity than Draco’s own, but he’s no longer in the business of trying to prove himself better than everyone else, so for the most part he succeeds in remaining sympathetic when she has the rare moment of vulnerability in the Slytherin common room late at night.

But then something strange had happened; Potter had started walking with them to and from classes. He’d begun sitting by them during meals, and of course Granger and Weasley had followed closely behind. After this, the bullying from other houses had, for the most part, stopped. Draco had been so secretly grateful that he hadn’t even put up a fuss about Potter trying to save him.

After enough days spent in the same vicinity, walking to and from the same classes, they all eventually begin talking, because what else are they to do if they are trying to put the war behind them? There’s an unspoken agreement that any discussion of the events of the war are off limits, and it’s a bit tense to begin with, but once Pansy and Draco manage to muster up the courage to actually apologize to the trio over their actions in the past, things go a lot smoother. Draco can almost consider them friends.

He’s a bit wary of Potter for reasons he would prefer not to dwell on, and Weasley still doesn’t like him for the most part, but he’s actually picked up a quick and semi easy friendship with Granger. They bond over their similar academic aspirations. Draco is glad to finally have someone to challenge him in his classes, and they often partner together in Potions. Of course, every time Draco looks at her for longer than a few seconds, his thoughts go back to that day in the Manor, and the exchange between her and his aunt that has haunted him since, but he’s mostly become good at pushing all that down somewhere deep where he can ignore it.

But then one day they’re sitting at breakfast when Granger receives an unusually large package. She gets this look on her face like he’s never seen before, anticipation and excitement and a little bit of anxiety. She pulls the package into her lap and opens it under the table, and her face positively lights up at whatever is inside. She’s sitting across from him, so he can’t exactly sneak a look at what she’s received, but Potter does it for him. He takes one look and grins big. “Are those—”

“My hormones!” Hermione says excitedly, and laughs, sounding happier than he’s ever heard her before.

And it’s not that he doesn’t know what hormones are, it’s just that he has no idea how or why they would be mailed to someone, so he can’t stop himself from asking, “Hormones?”

Granger gets a new look on her face, obviously considering changing the subject or simply lying to him, and it feels awful, but it’s not exactly like he could blame her, he thinks. Except, instead of doing so, she takes a deep breath and says, “Yeah, so, um. I’m kind of—muggles have this term for it, _transgender_?” And the thing is, Draco knows Latin as well as any good wizard should. He knows what ‘trans’ means. He also knows what ‘gender’ means, and he easily recognizes the look on her face as the same one when Bellatrix had made a certain implication, all the way back in Malfoy Manor. Draco is suddenly and acutely terrified, but no one seems to notice his panic except for Pansy, who is looking at him with great concern. Granger continues as though nothing is out of the ordinary.

“It means, basically, that I was born… _separately_ from how most girls are born. I was born with… certain body parts that girls don’t typically have, and the muggle doctor declared me a boy at birth. I’m not sure if there’s a wizarding equivalent to this; LGBT wizarding history is unreasonably hard to come by, but I guess the most important thing is that since I don’t have ovaries, my body doesn’t produce the hormones that most girls’ bodies do. Muggles have created the ability to administer the hormones from an outside source in order to allow trans people to further transition to their actual gender, and over the summer my parents and I went to a doctor in order to allow me to begin hormone therapy.”

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, Draco feels his heart drop to his knees. He sees Potter and Weasley and, hell, even Pansy looking at Granger with looks of such happiness for her (although Pansy is also intermittently looking at him with concern), but his hearing has sort of gone out as he tries to process all of this, and if anyone says anything, he doesn’t hear it.

He knows he should be happy for his friend, should be ecstatic for her, but in the moment after he realizes that Granger has just confirmed that she’s—she’s _trans_ , like him, all he feels is white hot, blinding jealousy.

He can’t breathe, he can’t do this, he has to go—

He gets up from the table and stumbles away for a moment before running as fast and as far away without even saying anything. He thinks about Granger, taking hormones, her body changing to fit how she feels inside. He thinks about himself, how he hates his body, always has. He thinks about how, for the past ten years he has believed he was alone, in all of this, all of these deep, deep feelings of his. He considers, briefly, what it might be like if he were allowed to do what Granger is doing, if he allowed _himself_ to do what Granger is doing. But Granger is a war hero, and he’s not. Granger was _tortured_ , and he stood there and he stood there and he _stood there_ , and he watched.

 _He thinks about himself, how he hates his body, always has_ —He thinks, I deserve this. The pain, the suffering, all the hurt and heartbreak.

This is him. It’s not what he wants. It’s not what he dreamed of. But he deserves it.

**i know**

Draco is _nineteen_ , and his world has just been shattered by someone he’s just begun to call his friend.

He finds himself sitting atop the Astronomy Tower, legs hanging haphazardly off the side, contemplating everything and nothing all at once. He looks down at the too green grass storeys below, and thinks. It’s not that he wants to die, but it would be so easy to just slide off the edge. And maybe it’s what he deserves.

He hears footsteps coming up quickly behind him, and doesn’t think before saying, “I can’t fucking do this, Pans. I really can’t, and I would appreciate it if you would allow me to stew in my own misery,” loudly enough to be heard over the wind.

Except, it’s not Pansy’s voice that responds. “Draco,” Granger says, because she’s the type of person to refer to him as his first name, despite the fact that he still calls her Granger like an arsehole. “I’m sorry, I can leave you alone, but I just wanted to see if you were okay. You ran off so quickly, and I was worried.”

The thing is, Draco knows what he _wants_ to do. He wants to make her go away, by any means possible. He wants to hurl any words at her that it will take to have her running for the hills. But he’s trying to be better— _he’s trying_ —so instead, he slowly turns in place and repositions so that he’s sitting cross legged, facing her. It takes one look at her sad, confused face to make him realize he’s prepared to tell her everything.

Granger is smart, so he doesn’t even have to say anything; one look at his face and she sits down across from him, a safe few feet away. She sits, and looks at him, and waits, like they have all the time in the world for Draco to bare his soul to her entirely.

“When I was nine,” he says, because he has to start somewhere. “I realized there was something wrong with me. Mother and Father and my other family members used to call me by a different name, and different words than I use now.”

“Draco—” Granger begins, but he holds his hand up to signal her to stop, because if he doesn’t say this in one go, he may never say it at all.

“My father was not… pleased, obviously. But I’ve always been cunning in nature, and I managed to convince him to go along with it. So I guess I’m… transgender, you said?” and then, in a small voice, “I didn’t even know there was a name for it. I kind of assumed that no one else was like this.”

Granger moves to sit closer to him, quietly enough that he doesn’t realize until he looks up from the frayed string of his robes that he had been anxiously picking at. “Can I ask who else knows?” She asks, after several moments of silence, during which Draco can only assume she had been trying to think of the right thing to say.

“You,” Draco says, and, “Pansy. My parents.” A pause, and then, “The death eaters.” A deeper pause. Draco doesn’t really want to admit to this last part, but eventually he works up the courage to say, quietly, “Voldemort.”

“I—I see,” Granger says. She does a surprisingly good job of keeping her voice steady when she next says: “At… At Malfoy Manor. When Bellatrix was—when she was torturing me. She said… something to me, and I knew it meant she knew. About me.” She takes a deep breath, and Draco prepares himself for what he knows is coming next. “Did you hear that? And… did you realize?”

“I,” Draco says, and then stops. Recoups. “I had my suspicions. Like I said, until roughly thirty minutes ago in the Great Hall, I had always made the assumption that I was all alone in this experience. I thought I was… I thought I was a _freak_ ,” and, the thing is, Draco has said this numerous times, to numerous people. He’s known he’s a freak for nearly ten years. He has never struggled with saying this out loud, because it’s simply the truth. But now—

Now, he knows that there are other people like him, other people who are transgender. He knows that _Hermione Granger_ is one of those people. He knows that this is apparently common enough that muggles have utilized their strange science to help people like him and Granger, to give them the hormones they need in order to live as easily and efficiently as possible. And he’s no longer so sure that that’s the right word for him. And suddenly the mere thought of being a freak makes him want to go back to sitting on the edge of the Astronomy Tower and staring a little too intently down at the Earth.

“Oh,” Granger says. “ _Draco_.” There’s fucking pity in her voice, and Draco finds it quite odd that Granger is perhaps the most understanding person he could come out, and this is the hardest time he’s had of it in his whole ten years of knowing he was like this. “I’m not going to try to force you to believe something you’re not ready for yet—Merlin knows no one can do that,” The joke, while incredibly ill advised, takes Draco by such surprise that he can’t help the small hiccup of laughter he emits. “But you should know that being trans doesn’t make you a freak. It’s not weird, or bad, or anything of the sort. More people are trans than you could ever know.”

“Yes, well, I’m beginning to realize that, Granger,” Draco says in a rueful voice, because, despite considering her somewhat of a friend, there’s only so much civil conversation he can have with the woman—especially when _feelings_ are involved. She doesn’t react in any way negatively to his tone of voice, rather just smiles slightly and stands, dusting her knees off.

“The others are probably wondering where we’ve run off to,” she says. “Best not keep them waiting.” She turns away from him and begins walking forward without checking to make sure he’s following; a fact for which he’s unnecessarily grateful.

He stands in his own time, and spares a short glance back towards the edge of the tower, but quickly moves on in order to catch up with Granger.

He’s beginning to realize that he hasn’t been sure as to what exactly he wants in a long time, if ever. But for the first time in years, he’s beginning to believe he can do this.

**my name**

Draco is still nineteen, and he’s _transgender_.

Everything in Draco’s life feels very real and very strange as of late. It’s been over a month since his conversation with Granger on the Astronomy Tower, and still he runs through it every night while laying in bed, clutching the blankets to the tight sleep shirt binding his chest. Draco’s known he’s been this— _trans_ —for a decade now, but something about having a word to put to the experience, something about the knowledge that there are others like him; other men like him, nineteen, laying sleeplessly in bed with some semblance of hope for once in their life—something about it all makes the entire thing feel more tangible, more real.

Draco’s not sure if Granger has divulged his little secret to Potter and Weasley, but he’s felt on edge recently due to the possibility that she may have. This isn’t helped by the fact that Potter keeps finding excuses to sit next to him in class, and at the library, and in the eighth year common room.

“How’re things?” He asks as he drops cross legged into the seat next to Draco’s, like he owns the place, and he looks more earnest than anyone Draco’s ever met, like they’re _friends_ , which—Draco supposes that maybe they are friends, now, at least somewhat, but it still couldn’t hurt the boy to show a little decorum.

“Oh, you know,” Draco says, smiling wryly. “Plotting how I can next frighten the Gryffindor first years.”

If he’s hoping to get some sort of reaction out of Potter, it doesn’t happen; Potter just laughs and says, “They’re not _that_ bad.”

“They most certainly are,” Draco says. “Yesterday I was subject to no less than three angry comments and four thinly veiled threats in the case that I do something to betray your trust. They’re very protective of their chosen one.”

“Maybe a little too protective,” Potter mutters, which Draco can attest to; there have been numerous times he himself has had to rescue the other eighth year from hordes of awestruck eleven year olds.

Draco only has a moment to ponder this before his mind goes resolutely blank when Potter laughs and runs his hand through his hair. It’s getting long, the back falling near his shoulders, and it’s an absolute disaster. Draco watches as Potter pushes it back, just for it to fall into his face again immediately, and something overcomes him in that moment. He seems to lose control of his own body as he reaches up to tuck the hair behind Potter’s ear without thinking.

Draco watches in abject horror (and maybe some fascination but absolutely _nothing else_ ) as the tips of Potter’s ears get pink and he ducks his head before biting his lip, flitting his eyes all the way around the room at least three times before allowing them to meet Draco’s.

Draco feels his own blush forming, cursing his fair skin for making it impossible to hide his embarrassment. He goes to remove his hand quickly, but Potter grabs it suddenly, pulling it towards him. He doesn’t look at Draco and he doesn’t say anything, just loops his fingers through Draco’s and allows their hands to fall in his lap.

There’s a moment of unbearable silence in which Draco feels his entire face go beet red before he finally manages to hiss out, “What are you—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Harry says, a bit too loudly, and then, quieter, “Shut up. I don’t know. Just—just go with it, Draco,” and Draco thinks, _what the fuck_ , and Draco thinks, _Pansy will never believe this_ , and Draco thinks, _he called me Draco_.

And Draco just goes with it.

**is not**

Draco is nineteen, and he holds hands with Potter sometimes.

By sometimes, of course, Draco means any given moment where they’re close to each other and there’s a chance no one will see.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen, really. Honestly, if he had known that tucking that lock of hair behind Potter’s ear would have resulted in this, he never would have done it—at least, he tells himself this. In reality, when he lays in bed at night all he can do is think about Potter, asleep across the room, and the contrast between his small, thin, fair hand and Potter’s larger, dark one.

So they hold hands sometimes, which is to say, relatively often. But that’s it. And it’s not like they’ve told anyone about this advancement, although Pansy has always somehow been disturbingly intuitive when it comes to Draco, so there’s no doubt in his mind that she somehow knows, and that by now she’s told Granger during one of their study sessions, in which case, Weasley obviously probably knows as well—

Anyway, they’ve simply been… doing this. Holding hands, not talking about it, not telling anyone, for a few weeks at this point. Sometimes Draco wonders how his father would react, and then he remembers that his father is in Azkaban and he suddenly has a whole other set of issues to deal with as he pretends he’s not bothered by it. But then Potter will do something abysmal like try to lead Weasley, Finnegan, Thomas, and Longbottom in a choreographed dance to some bizarre muggle song he and Granger have been singing ever since Granger came back from Winter holiday, and Draco is struck with the sheer amount of carefree happiness on Potter’s face, and he manages to forget entirely what he had been anxious about in favor heckling them. “Backstreet’s back, Malfoy!” Potter will say, which holds no meaning in Draco’s mind, but which he allows as a reasonable explanation anyway, because it’s better than trying to sit through his lecture on muggle music from the past decade again.

So they’ve been here, in stasis, for a few weeks now, until one day everything comes to a head.

They’re sitting alone in the common room while everyone else is at dinner. Draco would like to be at dinner, too, but Potter had insisted they stay back so they could _talk_ , whatever that means. “What is it, Potter?” Draco asks, looking down at the boy, who is a good few inches shorter than him.

Potter doesn’t say anything for a moment, but eventually he peers heavily into Draco’s eyes and says, “Do you think you could call me Harry?”

“If you honestly held me back from my dinner in order to ask me such a question—” Draco begins, rolling his eyes, but Potter butts in before he can issue a suitable threat.

“That’s not why I held you back. I was just… wondering. Because, well, I call you Draco, right? And you don’t mind that. At least, I don’t think you do. You haven’t ever said whether you were okay with it or not, so I assumed it was fine. But if not that’s okay, I can stop calling you Draco. It’s not a big deal, I don’t mind—” And Potter— _Harry_ —does this sometimes; talks on and on in a self conscious manner most unbefitting the savior of the wizarding world. It’s like he gets lost in these spirals of self doubt, and if you don’t pull him out yourself, he’ll just keep going and going until he loses his voice.

“I don’t mind you calling me Draco, Harry,” Draco says. “It’s perfectly fine. I even—” he shudders briefly at what he’s about to admit. “—I even kind of enjoy it. I was simply hoping you would have a better reason to keep me from my meal than discussing what names we use for each other.”

“Yes, well,” Harry says, and his cheekbones are red, which Draco knows to mean that he is quite embarrassed, as it takes a lot for the color to overpower the melanin in his skin.

Draco waits for Harry to get on with whatever it had been that he’d held back for, but he never does. After a few moments, Draco goes to open his mouth again, and that’s when Harry leans in suddenly, bumping their noses together as he presses his lips firmly against Draco’s.

He’s there one second and then gone the next, suddenly standing a foot away, arms crossed defensively over his chest, shifty gaze looking anywhere but at Draco. Draco stands, stock still, staring at Harry in shock. He manages to refrain from lifting his hand up to gently touch his lips, but just barely. “Oh,” he says, after a few more moments of silence, in which he’s kind of expecting the entire castle to crash down with the weight of what’s just happened.

“So, um, yeah,” Harry says, seemingly having gathered the courage to explain himself. He’s still blushing, still not looking at Draco, but he’s not in Gryffindor for no reason. “I guess, that is to say, I like you. Like, _like_ like you. And I would like to kiss you more, and hold your hand where other people can see, and I just thought that. You should. Know.” He says, all choppy, like it’s hard to get out. Draco is bewildered.

“I—I see,” Draco says, for want of something better to say. “Well. I suppose that would suffice. I can’t blame you really, I’m quite the catch,” he drawls confidently, trying to emulate the Draco he’d been months ago, before Harry had decided to grace him with his presence at all hours of the day, but the effect is somewhat lost because he has no control of the blush overtaking his face. Harry just grins at his words, brighter than he has any good reason to, and Draco’s horrified when he finds himself smiling in response.

**apathy.**

Draco is nineteen, and he’s alive, and the war is over, and he has friends, and Harry Potter kisses him like he’s the most precious thing in existence, like he’s something to be cared for and valued, like he’s something to be _loved_.

Harry, who holds his hand in the Great Hall during meals in front of everyone like it’s nothing. Harry, who is touch starved for reasons he hasn’t told Draco yet, and who makes up for this by touching Draco whenever possible. A hand on his arm, a kiss to the temple, a leg between his when they sneak away to lay together in the dark, cool dormitories. Harry, who is the savior of the wizarding world, and by extension, maybe Draco’s savior, too.

 _This is me_ , Draco thinks quietly as he watches Harry absolutely lose it, laughing when the other Gryffindor boys surprise him with the perfected choreography of that strange muggle song.

This is him, and he can do this.

**Author's Note:**

> hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> there will be more of this, like so much more probably. jay has asked very politely for porn so there will be some porn and also further explorations of harry's fragile mental health. probably in the same fic. like a two for one special. my faceclaim for harry is dev patel like COME ON BRO. um i don't think it's made very clear in this fic that hermione is black but like. trust me. she is. ok thx bye. oh the like. title is from the song despite what you've been told by two gallants, and the part headers/quote comes from a random piece of art i saw on tumblr forever ago that just kinda stuck with me. dont have a link, sorry
> 
> (if you wanna talk to me about drarry or hp or anything you can find me on tumblr @ chaoticdumbassharrypotter)


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